


A Bad Night and Good Tea

by DawnsEternalLight



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alfred doesn't get enough credit, Bruce is trying his hardest, Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Nightmares, alfred's the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 18:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11386401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: Sometimes Bruce wishes he were a child again. It was so much easier to ask for help then. So much easier to go to Alfred when he couldn't sleep for fear of nightmares. Thankfully some things never change, and Alfred has always been able to tell when Bruce needs him.





	A Bad Night and Good Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audreycritter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/gifts).



> For Audrey, who's somehow gotten me to write more Bruce-centric fics this past week or so than I have in a very long time.

Bruce Wayne was no stranger to nightmares. He’d experienced them in the day and night. He’d walked through them in toxin induced hazes. He’d watched them become a reality time and again. Most days he could handle them. Tonight, he couldn’t.

It wasn’t always the same thing that triggered a bad night. Sometimes it was Bruce not making it in time to save someone. Others it one of his rouges falling back into crime after apparently recovering. Still other times it didn’t seem there was a trigger. This time there had been one. It had been Dick. He’d been hurt on patrol. Nothing life threatening, but enough to put his oldest off patrol for a week or so.

It brought back memories of the early days with Dick. When it felt like he was in danger all the time and Bruce constantly vaulted between wondering why he let a _child_ into the field, and how proud he was of his boy.

This time it wasn’t the pride stuck in his gut, but the fear. It ate away at him long after he and Alfred finished patching Dick up, and after he’d tucked his oldest into bed, sitting with him long enough to be sure his breathing was deep and even. It coiled in him after he’d checked on each of his other kids, either in person or with a text soon replied to. Even now it stayed with him as he lay in bed watching shadows dance along his wall as the wind played with leaves outside his window.

He rolled out of bed and pulled slippers onto his feet to protect them from the cold floor. The same nervous fear that was keeping him awake drove him out of the room and down the hall. He stopped again at Damian’s room, peeking in to make sure he was still there before moving to Dick’s.

How long he stood there, watching Dick’s chest rise and fall he didn’t know. He was frozen at the door, he wanted to go in and sit with his son, but he couldn’t move past the frame, worried he’d wake him and put him through more pain than he needed to.

There was also that familiar feeling of doubt at the back of his mind. The same one that came anytime one of his family was hurt. The surety he was at fault for all the pain his kids went through, and the worry that he’d made the wrong decision letting Dick ever put on the Robin uniform. He wondered how he ever slept at all.

At some point he pulled away, easing the door shut behind him. He let his feet take him where they would. Somehow, he found himself at Alfred’s door. He pulled away as soon as he realized where he was, but not without some regret.

He couldn’t help but remember when he was younger. Back then he could admit being scared or worried. It was easy to poke his head into Alfred’s room and press close to the man as they walked down to the kitchen for a warm drink and comforting words.

That was no longer an option for him. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He should be able to help himself. If he was dealing with Dick or Tim he could pinpoint the issue and do something to comfort them. Why was it so hard to do with his own problem?

He wanted to turn on his heel and head back to Alfred’s room, and beg the man to sit with him for a while. He didn’t even want advice right now, just someone who understood. Of everyone he knew, Alfred was the man to understand how Bruce was feeling.

Instead he made his way down to the kitchen alone. He brewed a cup of chamomile tea, more for the flavor than expecting it to actually help him sleep, and cupped his hands around the mug as he sat at the bar. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, leaving the small bulb above the stove as the only thing illuminating the kitchen.

It was quiet, and normally he’d enjoy it. He’d rest, in the peace in his home, the comfort of knowing his kids were alive and safe, and the ease of a night well done. But now it ate at him, the loneliness of it all.

He gulped a mouthful of tea and coughed at the burning heat. A hand pressed at his back, steadying him as he loosed the tickle of liquid in his throat.

“Tea is best meant to be sipped, Master Bruce. It’s most calming that way.” Alfred said.

Bruce looked up at him with a smile he hoped thanked the man for more than the advice. Alfred always knew. Bruce had no idea how, but the man never missed a night when he felt this way.

He sipped his tea as Alfred brewed himself a cup and took the stool next to him. It was incredible how Alfred’s presence soaked up Bruce’s fear and anxiety. Just sitting with him put Bruce more at ease than the habit of checking on his kids had.

“Georgie called today. It started as advice on removing stains but turned into more of a gossip session than anything.” Alfred said absently.

He turned his mug in his hands and smiled. “She insisted on telling me all about the Millers and their scandalous trip to Spain last week. I won’t bore you with the details, suffice to say the trip was of course the source of the stain.”

Bruce couldn’t remember who Georgie or the Millers were. He was sure he knew them, or at least of them, but at the moment it didn’t matter. Alfred was giving him time to rest, he was building comfort with words. Filling the silence with idle chatter, the same way he used to when Bruce was a boy.

Growing up the manor had never been a loud place, not for long at least. It picked up when he parents threw parties, or invited family, but for the most part it was quiet. Never silent though. There was always activity. His father moving from his office to the library. His mother working either alongside him or on her own, moving from room to room as she needed. And Bruce, he had the run of the place, keeping mostly to his favorite spots, but never unwilling not to explore.

When his parents died it was like the house died with them. No longer were there unexpected noises from the well used rooms. There wasn’t muttering or pages turning. Chairs didn’t scrape and toes were rarely stubbed.

The silence almost drowned Bruce. He couldn’t fill it, he had no desire or ability to. There was no one to badger with questions, no one to beg praises on schoolwork from, or to question about the mysteries of the universe. There was only him, and Alfred.

And so, Alfred had chatted. About everything. He’d talk about what he was doing, the neighbors, and plans for the week. Through it all he’d coax words out of Bruce. First, he’d only get responses, then questions, and finally elaborations. It brought the pockets of the manor the two of them used back to life.

They sat together for a few moments longer, sipping their tea. The clink of china and slurp of liquid enough sound for the moment.

“I was thinking of making a new recipe involving salmon for dinner tomorrow.” Alfred said. “Master Timothy mentioned he’d tried a dish a few weeks back and it piqued my interest.”

Bruce hummed into his mug.

“I’d considered putting it off for a while, but tomorrow is as good a day as any. A new recipe is sure to cheer everyone, even if it’s a flop.” Alfred continued. “Perhaps, especially if it’s a flop.”

Bruce smiled into his cup. “None of your recipe’s have ever been flops.”

“Hogwash.” Alfred said, his voice gentle. “You’ve forgotten the time I attempted vegan inspired lasagna.”

“I purposefully forgot that one, though it wasn’t your fault. Lasagna was never meant to be anything beyond lasagna.” Bruce said.

Alfred smiled into his cup. “At least it turned Master Jason off the idea of becoming vegan.”

Bruce shook his head. “I didn’t imagine a school video could be enough to convince him to even try it not with the way he scarfed down chili dogs.”

The other man hummed. “I seem to remember you doing something similar when you were younger. You refused to use any paper products for a week after that rainforest documentary you watched. Your father had make a substantial donation to the rainforest campaign in order to convince you to use it again.”

“Like father like son I guess.” Bruce chuckled.

They lapsed back into silence. This time it was comfortable. Bruce’s worry had faded over the conversation to something that didn’t feel like it was going to devour him. His mug was also almost empty. Though he still wasn’t sure he could sleep.

He found himself leaning into Alfred. Their stools were close enough that neither were in danger of falling, and the man’s presence was so comforting he let childish desire take over adult responsibility.

Alfred responded with an arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“He’ll be fine.” He murmured.

“I know.” Bruce agreed.

It was a few seconds before Alfred spoke again. “It is also not your fault. Master Dick knew what he was getting into tonight.”

Bruce nodded into Alfred’s shoulder, unable to find the words to argue that it was his fault. He’d put them all in the position to get hurt. He’d made each of his kids into crimefighters. If he hadn’t started it he wouldn’t be where he was now.

“Do you think they ever blame me, Alfred?” Bruce asked suddenly.

“Who?”

“The kids. Do you think they hate me for dragging them into my fight?”  

He was pressed so close to Alfred by this point he could feel the man’s sigh, and he was almost afraid of what it meant.

“Sometimes in fits of anger I think they do.” Alfred said slowly, “But overall none of them would trade it for the world. It has given each of them something they needed, and a way to help people.”

Bruce hummed, knowing Alfred had more to say.

“I haven’t always agreed with the decision myself, but I also cannot help how proud I am of them and you for giving so much of yourselves for people you don’t even know. You are a good father, Bruce, and a good man.”

He hugged Bruce tightly for a moment before letting go. “Now, either go back to bed or go sit with your son. You have a late start to your day tomorrow so you can afford a little lost sleep either way.”

Bruce smiled at him, even as Alfred collected their dishes to set in the sink and be taken care of in the morning.

“Alfred?” he said, still sitting.

Alfred turned to him. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Alfred’s smile was soft as he stepped forward to put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder again, “Any time, Master Bruce. Any time at all.”


End file.
